


Spine of the World

by Sunshineditty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunshineditty/pseuds/Sunshineditty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"The spine of the world was broke and the army of dust awoke."</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He heard these words once, he thinks. Heard tell of a world before Smoke Eaters and mind riders ruled the grass; a world where the Wastes had never nibbled at the edges of civilization and took the young before they became old. A half-remembered dream lingering at the edges of dawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spine of the World

The hunter feels his age pressing upon him, the creak of heavy bone and tautly stretched flesh, but tosses back the burning drink anyway. He relishes the fire as it scorches down his throat into his stomach, wondering if this spell might be the one to kill him.

"Very good," the witch purrs, her dark eyes almost obscured by the smoke wreathing in front of her face like a goddamned pet arching for her attention. It might be, for all he knows, since he's pretty sure she's a Smoke Eater acolyte. If he could just see the back of her neck – shielded by the weight of her hair caught up in tiny clanging silver beads – he would know for sure. He hates uncertainty more than he hates her kind, but he doesn't push for more.

It would be useless anyhow. Bad for business, really, since he's here for her contract. Blood coin is still coin and a man has needs.

"What brings you to my table, hunter?"

She is too young for such an old deep voice heavy with insinuation; his suspicions are true. Wastes plague him.

"I'm here for coin, Priestess."

He really doubts she's that high up, as her eyes aren't bleeding white or black or red, but courtesy never hurts.

"What's your name, hunter?"

The sly question brings a flush of anger to his cheeks, but he manages to turn his lips into a smirk to hide it. It's never wise to bring emotions into any deal, much less with a Smoker Eater or one of its lesser demons. That's just asking for trouble.

"As I spoke it: Hunter."

"Why do you come?"

He resists the urge to roll his eyes and the smirk falls from his lips gracelessly; it's a hard fit for his face anyway so he sheds it easily. Though he hates the reasoning behind it, he recognizes the first step in this intricate dance and settles deeper into his seat, able to ignore the smoke wending through the small room. Normally he would protest the cloth, and stone and wood, needing the wide expanse of sky and air and earth, but he's able to set aside the dark stirrings deep in his belly for practical reasons.

"I am here for a contract, blood coin."

The blue of her eyes sharpens and crystallizes so he knows the mind rider is of middling power since the eerie color is still mortal. It would be so easy to reach across and turn breath to stillness, but it's not why he's here, though a small part of him puts her on his mental list of things that must die (eventually) by his hand. It's not a long list, probably because he doesn't forget and always gets his prey. He's patient like that.

He picks up the glass again – ignoring the hissing purple liquid coating the bottom even as he drinks down the last of it - expertly rolling it over his tongue, savoring the taste so he can accurately pinpoint what went into the crafting, before finally swallowing. The witch's eyes follow the movement of his throat, her gaze an intrusive weight against the golden skin. He can almost smell the lust pouring off her – there is a thick sulfurous taint to it so the mind rider is in agreement with her, though he doubts their intentions are the same. The demon wants to rip him apart and she wants to fuck him apart; about the only thing they probably would agree on is siphoning off his power.

The rustle of parchment interrupts his thoughts and he watches as she slides it across the scarred table; once his fingers touch it, however, he realizes it's not paper at all. It's skin. For a moment the room twists sideways, the witch's pale face as pitiless as the moons in the sky, and he almost loses sense of himself in the strangeness. It's the eagerness in her narrow vulpine face, lips parted with almost-silent pants, that brings him back to himself with a jarring thud. He must be grass-still or she, _it_ , will latch onto his weakness and possibly hitch a ride.

"Do you want to know how I made this?"

Her fingernails should be dripping with blood, he distantly thinks, but instead they're short and shell-pink, the color he normally associates with the vulnerable inner ear skin of the rabbits he catches to eat. Their screams echo faintly in his mind as he keeps his eyes locked with hers, unwilling to show the fissures and cracks slicing through him.

"Only if it has something to do with the hunt; otherwise it can take a flying leap into the Abyss."

His crude words fall into the silence, before her laughter wells in a rushing fall of bell-like chimes. In another time he might've found her lovely, white throat bared, reddish hair glinting in the witch light, but he knows the evil crawling beneath her skin, hooked into her mind, and merely plots her demise.

"It does, hunter. This is from a thief who stole something of mine and I want you to hunt him down."

He is given his task and feels the snap of command leashing him to her will. It's not often he shudders beneath the lash, but this time he yearns to yank free so he can finish what his thundering pulse and itchy fingers urge him to do; he's a hunter born and bred, however, so he yields instead for now.

This time the soft brush of skin doesn't twist him, so he's able to get a sense of the kinship – he can taste the blood and bone and flesh it sprang from and he will know its master once he sights him.

"I will give you more than blood coin, hunter. I will reward you handsomely if you give me but one little thing."

Hunger spikes hard and true.

"What is it?"

"I only ask for your name, a tiny insignificant thing."

"Hunter."

Frustration is a sharp tang in his nose and he almost laughs in derision because he can tell neither the mind rider nor the witch can entangle his mind despite the potent truth spell slithering through his stomach. True names have power, but so do titles, and his is a talisman shielding him from her – their – enticements. It's entertaining actually because it's been years since he's been caught by anyone, much less a third rate mind hack and his bodysuit.

"Do you swear by blood and bone to hunt?"

The opening words of an oath tinge the air and he stiffens, anger curling through him. Once a hunter is loosed on a scent, there is no need to oath bind him since given a directive, he can no more turn from the path than a bird can keep from the sky. Affront wars with bitter amusement as he knows how this will end.

"No."

Her eyes widen and her jaw loosens a little, but he can see the triumphant calculation that is nothing of witch and all mind rider. It thinks he is caught in their trap.

"You would turn aside a blood oath?"

His knife appears in his hand as if by magic, and the witch startles back, her hand instinctively curling into a protective sign, but he ignores her theatrics and draws the sharp shining blade across the wrist he's placed on the table. Her pink tongue looks obscene swiping across red lips as she eyes the bright crimson line beading against his skin.

He raises the cut to her, offering her the life liquid – Witches thrive on blood-driven curses and spells, so there's no way this one, even influenced, would be able to resist his offering. The speed in which she accepts tells him the mind rider is of even less consequence than he first assumed because a Smoke Eater would have such control over the body, there would be no room for independent thought. Three drops fall into a perfect triangle on the white lines scoring the middle of the table; he smirks when it eats through the runes.

"Oath breaker!"

The horror is genuine because there's no way she can get him to commit without it back-lashing on her.

His pointed look hardly soothes her – their – anger at being thwarted, but the ritual is complete: thrice asked and thrice denied. Mind rider settles back into the dimness of her unnatural blue eyes and witch takes control again.

"Take this and contact me the moment you find that skirthiin."

The round object looks like a smooth pebble but his other sight shows it's a lodestone, keyed to her magic, and gives him the ability to contact her once his hunt is completed. He is reluctant to touch it because he doesn't want the smoke to bush against his skin, but he still gamely plucks it from the table and nestles it into a fold near his hip; her laughter is sharp as she discerns his repugnance.

"A hunter afraid of a little smoke magic? Will wonders never cease? Here –"a small velvet bag smacks his face and falls into his hand. "Something to hold it so it doesn't touch your precious body." He hefts it judging the worth inside. Exactly fifteen pieces, the agreed upon amount for starting the hunt; he will have fifteen more upon completion: he sometimes wonders why blood coin payments always came in thirty pieces, but it's an esoteric thought and not really pertinent to this transaction.

He doesn't bother unwinding the string holding the rotting cloth together though he knows she expects it. Hunters are a suspicious lot, but her desire for the thief outweighs any attempt to cheat him despite his stonewalling her intentions, so he merely tucks it into his waistband as he leans away from the table and stands.

Her eyes follow his length as he stretches and stretches into a tall well-made man dressed in skins and leather and cloth, blade and hook his only weapons. He bows perfunctorily, eager to be shed of her presence and backs out the small door, careful to keep facing her. There's an insult paid to turning your back on power or magic and he's strong enough to take whatever she or her rider would throw at him, but it's a poor pissing match and not really worth time or effort.

Warmth and freedom greet him as he is relinquished from the smoky grasp of witch and demon magic. He rolls his shoulders to rid himself of her taint as the wooden door falls shut at his touch. The impressions of her house fade from his mind even as his strides take him outside the boundary of the town and deeper into the grasslands. It is the way of magic for illusion to be more real than reality because he's certain this town doesn't exist anywhere outside the scope of her reach; he wouldn't be surprised if he turned and everything was burnt and haunted. Smoke Eaters and the Lesser Courts coexist uneasily in the territories not swallowed by the Wastes or the Shadowlands, but they're not above carving their presence into the earth and there's no help for those caught in their path.

* * *

The day lengthens into night by the time he reaches the river, the shushing sound of water tumbling over rock leading him to the banks. Once he passes over the running element, he'll be deep in the grass and the next time he'll brush against community will be a small encampment of weres tucked into the mountainside. If he changes direction and heads more northerly, he'll come upon a clutch of nomads who roam the Upper Reaches, their timetable set by the seasons. He crouches by the wet, dipping cupped hands so he may drink as he decides his options. The witch had wisely chosen not to set a limit on the hunt, letting him go at his discretion; he briefly thinks she may know his reputation despite being in the wilds then shrugs because it's unimportant.

Strangely indecisive, he camps by the river for a few days, eating the silvery flashes he catches in the water, and expending his own pooled power to keep warm in the relatively cool evenings despite the abundance of fire starters. He rarely takes more than he needs and fire can be destructive so he ignores the needs of his body and tends to the wants of his soul.

It's on the third day, the sun a dim reflection canting over the hill, when he feels a tug, deep down in the lower regions of his bowels and he knows the hunt is afoot. The evidence of his presence on this small sandy shore is hidden and he slips through the hip deep water as easily as the grasses on the other side. It's been an age since he trod the stones of a see-ti but it's the direction of his hunt so he settles into kenning and follows it south.

The wind and clouds and sun and the two moons are his only companion through much of his journey, this part of the territory empty of man or beast. It is sung this lush countryside was filled with all manners of life other than plant, but it's difficult to imagine it, the desolate beauty similar if less deadly than the Wastes eating into the edges of the world.

The first sign of civilization is heralded by the barking of a dog patrolling his thatch of land. The tones of his signal are easily heard by anyone attuned to beast-thinking and when the farm house comes into view, there is a man standing guard at its door.

"How do, Wanderer."

Words don't come easily after a few turns in the grass, but courtesy drummed into him enables his vocal chords to respond, if roughly.

"I'm on a hunt leading into the see-ti."

Relaxation comes to the other man, his sun-burnt face creasing into a smile. There is little to fear of a hunter unless you're on his list. The wards and sigils sketched into the rough bark building speak to folk knowledge; the herbal smell drifting from the open door say hedge witchery. A twist of lips settle the farmer even more as he cannot miss the way the hunter's nose twitched in recognition.

"Be at ease here and be welcome."

It is the traditional greeting and invitation for any wanderer.

He shakes his head once, despite the leanness of his frame and the dryness of his tongue. The ring of stone is still before him and he doesn't wish to hurry his entombment any closer, which would start if he entered this home. It's always thusly when he spends more time in the grass than with other humans. He feels half-wild and undone, the outer wrappings of his clothing a façade to hide his feral nature. It's better to slip into his human guise without witnesses despite the otherness inherent in hedge witches.

The ground is now cut and scored, tamped down by others' feet and wheels, so he feels even more unbalanced as he walks away from the welcoming farm and further into man's world. He cannot comprehend how they can live in such compact spaces when the grassland spreads out so welcoming. It is a constant thought as the day shortens and he finds the see-ti's walls rising boldly from hallowed ground.

From his vantage point overlooking the valley the see-ti is nestled in, he can see a small line of people waiting before the gate. His hunter's senses enable him to pick out the details of the guards as they assess the value of those before them; the sheen of beaten metal to protect against spells and the runes carved into their spears to enable true flight.

The stink of earth power makes him inwardly flinch, his own power rushing to push against the intrusion until he feels almost dizzy and nauseous. He dreads entering the stronghold created from the bones of the land, but the kenning directs him to his quarry among the masses. Blood coin is blood coin regardless of its source and he's already been loosed. Breathing deeply, he comes down until he is behind a small blond girl who clutches a small squeaking bundle, two steps away from the guards he observed.

Up close, their height is more noticeable and it's the first time in a while he comes across that surpasses his own size. It's not often he's matched in length or width or speed, so he approaches cautiously as one does a rabid animal – this close it is obvious the beaten metal armor is actually their own skin, which points to titans, young ones at that since they only stand at seven feet tall instead of the usual nine. It is a rare earth lord to hold a titan, much less two, to his will. This could be interesting.

"State your business in Idyllwild."

"I'm hunting a blood coin contract."

The left titan leans back at the information, eyes flickering over him in an assessing manner. He stands tall against the gaze, sure in his own worth and just actions. The alien being judges him against some unknown standard but comes to some conclusion because he's waved through the stone gates without another word.

He slips into the stream of humanity without a ripple, his keen senses and ability to fade into the background allowing him to see navigate without drawing undue attention to himself. There are still sideways glances and looks, but those eyes slip over him after judging him nonthreatening: he doesn't wear the mark of a Sinwasher, the madness of a Smoke Eater, or the belled collar of the magi. His clothing speaks to hard use and some of the more affluent members hold scented handkerchiefs to their noses as if to ward off his stench. He notices all, but disregards it as unimportant, following the inner prompting which leads to a small unmarked lane off the main thoroughfare.

It is a revelation of exploding colors from the heavy flowers swaying seductively from green vines twined around the small balconies, to the flap of dainty laundry catching in the breeze. Even a man from the grasses knows these signs and he hesitates, feeling large and dangerous in a way that is different when measuring himself against an opponent. In those moments, he relishes his strength and darkness because he knows how to handle most fights – physical or supernatural – and is prepared for all eventualities. This, this is different because it speaks to the smaller mysteries of life he rarely brushes against.

"Aren't you a biggun?"

Her voice doesn't startle him so much as the apparent appreciation twined in the rich tones. He sensed her appraisal from the shadows to his left but hadn't twitched or turned his head to acknowledge her presence, letting her choose whether to step into the light with him or slip away. He isn't sure what to make of her choice.

"I come –"he hesitates, unsure how to phrase his mission. He can see her clearly now and she is different from the witch. Whereas before that one's physical beauty had repelled him and left him cold, this pleasingly rounded girl-woman casually layered in sheer white, her blond hair catching rays of the sun and reflecting gold to his dazzled eyes, is breath-taking and he doesn't want to scare her away.

"Hopefully not in your leathers. Sound uncomfortable, ayah." Her blue eyes sweep over his length and a flush touches her cheeks, tinting them a glorious pink. "Though it looks like you'd be good."

He cocks his head and studies her for a moment, the synapses of his brain firing wildly until his grass-addled mind catches the joke and he ducks his head bashfully.

"Naha, naha. I come searching."

Her gasp brings his attention back to her face and he's shocked anew by the gaze staunchly meeting his own and her lips spread in joyous welcome.

"Hunter," she breathes, "bid you welcome."

Her hand is soft and white and so achingly small against his scarred dark one, thin fingers twining through his as she pulls him from the sun-dappled courtyard into the cool shadows of the house he'd seen sketched in shadow. There was sound and life and laughter echoing through the stone corridors, all feminine and sweet, a sound similar to a chorus of birds he'd once heard an age and a half ago, their words swirling into an incomparable harmony he longs to capture and keep forever.

The hallway erupts into a large room filled with furniture, movements, and grace. There are three other women, all dressed similarly to his guide, and they are in various positions of household chores – one sweeps, one mops, and the last dusts. It's so absurdly domestic and homely; he almost wonders if he's mistaken who they are.

"Ayah, wanderer."

The women – older than the one standing beside him – turn as one being with three sets of eyes of varying shades, their hair blending from honey brown to the gold-tint that so bedazzled him before. He can tell two are related and the other two family by bond if not by blood.

"He's so tall."

"-so handsomely made."

"I love his eyes."

Their reactions are so far outside his ken, he doesn't know what to make of it. He's spent a majority of his time in the grasses where the women he encounters are worn to the nub by hard-scrabble life, indifferent to his person other than his abilities with knife and fist, willing to let him rut upon them in exchange for safety from the things that rustle in the night.

He can count on two hands and still have fingers left over the amount of time he's spent in the see-tis. There are six in the range he roves, but he generally keeps his distance, preferring the small towns and villages to the ring of stones that speak of prisons and loss.

"Ayah, Martine, I told ye he would come."

It's unquestionable as to who "he" is given the delighted expressions crossing their beautiful faces, though the shock and shaky breaths clues him to which female the comment was directed towards.

Martine – the oldest but still younger than him – steps forward with a puzzled frown, her expressive blue eyes greedily washing over him. He wonders at the whip-thin scar wrapped around her throat for a moment before his vision whites out, a vague impression of large hands wielding a garrote crowding his mind's eyes, and he wonders no longer. The bile taste in the back of his mouth and the red tinge overlying his sight calls to his instincts and he beats it back with difficulty. He knows without asking it was her first and nearly her last, the awkwardness of youth and budding womanhood distinct even in his peek into her past.

"Hunter, who do you seek?"

Her husky words are formal, demanding an answer and the blue has bled to gold. He doesn't feel compelled, not quite, but it's an itch beneath his skin and one he recognizes. There is no more confusion as to why titans guard the gates. He understands now why he was drawn here and he addresses her respectfully.

"Old Mother, I am searching for a thief."

"You would do the bidding of a witch?"

The word is laden with disgust and anger, for witches are the bane of the earth because they achieve their power through unnatural ways.

"Blood coin is blood coin is blood coin."

The sharp bark of disbelief is rough against his senses, like the ground shifting and shaking, splitting open to reveal deep chasms.

"Truly a hunter, this one." Martine paces closer, her perfume as dizzying as the warmth of the acolyte still at his side. "You search for the right things in all the wrong places, ayah. You're truly blessed in bizarre ways."

Fear and wonder chase each other through the pitted remains of his memories, holes he fills with visions and hunts and numbness.

"What is your name?"

"Hunter."

"What is your name?"

"Wanderer."

"What is your name?"

"Weapon."

Her laughter isn't taunting, but sad, gentle as the hand that cups his face and draws him down to her more diminutive height.

"Ach, but you're a pretty one for someone so broken. I can feel the emptiness of you and it hurts my heart."

The kiss against his lips is slow and sensuous, the weight of her breasts against his hard body soft and precious. There are more hands and mouths and fingers weaving their magic around him, but he is intoxicated despite his usual caution and dislike of people invading his personal space.

Had anyone predicted he would enter a dedicated temple to an earthen goddess, he would've thought them barking mad and tried to dispatch them to the underworld to relieve them. Instead he drifted amidst the feminine loveliness and found himself transported to a time without end, slick wet heat, and stuttering assurances of his own masculinity.

* * *

When he comes to, he discovers he is nude and lying on a soft eiderdown bed, his body healed of the small aches and pains he'd ignored in his quest for the thief.

"Morning, hunter."

The female at the door is unknown to him, but alike the women he met earlier in the (day? week? month?) offering room.

"You have me at a disadvantage. I don't know you."

He lounges against the sheets, unaware of the bronzed glory spectacle he makes of himself to her. Her eyes are covetous and yearning, her lips dry as she wets them unconsciously, desiring to sup of his strength but knowing she cannot.

"I'm Risa, novice."

He nods respectfully, his attention drawn to the tray overflowing with food in her hands. His appetite had waned in the days spent traversing the grasses, so he listens to his grumbling belly with some surprise. He can't see his own expression so he is perplexed by her humor, drawn to the sight of open appreciation.

The food is simple but hearty, washed down with cold spring water, and he feels better than he has in a very long time. Risa hovers at the bedside, her voice a counterpoint to the scrapes of the fork upon the plate, his attention evenly divided between her stories of entering the Priestess hood and devouring the fare. When he swallows the last bite, she takes the tray from his lap and leaves silently, but returns within moments, his clean clothes draped over her arm.

"Essie managed to get the blood and green stains from your gear."

She flushes at the charming smile he bestows on her, grateful for the return of his armor. It might seem thin and useless as anything other than covering, but it gives him a sense of himself when he slips it on. He sees the desire to dally in Risa's transparent face, yet he doesn't feel a flicker of desire to reciprocate and he ponders this as he straps himself down. Once finished, he returns his attention to her and asks the only pertinent question:

"Will one of them increase?"

A fine-boned hand rises to strawberry blond hair and pulls it towards her mouth, green eyes flitting away and alighting on nothing. The silence is telling though he isn't truly surprised. Humanity is on the brink of collapse – even with the advent of magic in the world – and every man is spread thin. It's one of the reasons why monogamy and faithfulness to one partner is considered dangerous and inconsiderate.

"The Lady said all of them will."

"How many?"

"Four."

He doesn't remember much of the encounter beyond the endless bone-shaking release that speared his brain, heart, and breeding organ, but he remembers the four women – three acolytes and one goddess touched female – he initially met. His mouth is drawn into a wistful smile because he knows he'll never see their bellies swell or meet his offspring. Most men never know which children are sired by them, so he supposes it's selfish of him to wish it different. Not like he could take a baby with him into the grass.

"The Lady also bid me to give you this message: he waits for you at the edge of the Wastes."

He pauses in sheathing his knife at his back. "My contract?"

Risa shrugs, a slinky roll of bone which sends her long unbound hair to bounce gently against her shoulders.

"I can only pass you her words if not the meaning."

He briefly considers her, but in the end she is a mere messenger. He knows if he tracks down Martine, he'll find the housemother but not the Old Mother who so briefly resided in her this past fortnight. The donning of his clothing has resettled him despite his feminine environs and he senses how much time has passed and it should anger him for the days he's lost, but he can't when he understands the reasoning. Now, however, he's impatient to be gone. The kenning veers east and he wonders how much of the initial push towards this see-ti was the hunt and how much of it was goddess driven.

In the end, it doesn't really matter.

"Where's the nearest hoofer?"

Risa ponders this, her smooth unlined face creasing in concentration. He can nearly taste the inexperience of her skin, but it merely intrigues him instead of alights him with want. It's the rare female to reach her age without being tried at least once; there must be some higher divine purpose to her that would warrant such inattention.

"I can show you," she breathily offers, a shy smile curving pale pink lips. He inclines his head courteously because it will be faster to be guided instead of searching.

There is a sense of déjà vu as he follows her down another long narrow hallway which opens into the offering room of before, but this time there aren't any women awaiting him and the cool dark house is silent. Her bare feet don't hesitate once they reach the courtyard and she leads him unerringly towards the stables, the ringing sound of a blacksmith working loud even in the burble of humanity pressing all around him.

Large heads peek over stall doors as he comes into view, intelligent eyes measuring his worth. Risa stops just outside the blackened circle ringing the metal worker, her skin almost visibly crawling. Metal may come from earth, but fire twists and bends it from its original shape and cannot feel natural to one of her vocation.

He reaches into the pouch and extracts a blood coin, handing it to her. Green eyes widen then narrow in affront.

"You've paid your dues with us, hunter. Four new lives do not come cheaply."

He inclines his head and brushes a kiss against her cheek, turning away almost instantly as embarrassment tries to flush him.

The blacksmith leans against his anvil, watching them with a large toothy grin.

"Ayah, come bargain with me."

Risa's footseps are nearly silent but he can feel the fade of her at his back and knows when she passes beyond even his reach. She safely returns to her cool dark house unmolested, but he figures in this see-ti, the grace of the Old Mother holds sway.

"Ye escaped with yer bullocks still attached? Good on ye, hunter."

He rolls his eyes at the good-natured ribbing and advances towards the horses still watching him. He could walk the span of grass to the Wastes, but it would take him longer and he felt an insistent prickling – it came once he left the warded space of the goddess – urging him to get there quickly.

"I need good and steady but fast."

The blacksmith heaves to his side, his height and bulk jarring after the slim loveliness he spent days entangled with; he shakes off the lingering sensation and refocuses his formidable senses.

"Hunting are ye, ayah?" Large knuckled hands gently pat the nearest nose even as his eyes judge the hunter's size. He is not a small man, reaching the half mark to seven feet, but light on his toes for all that. The blacksmith comes to some conclusion and fades into the shadows near the back. He doesn't follow, merely waiting in the half-light. A door opens and closes, followed by steady hoofbeats against the stone flooring.

The horse is black all over with silver points on its hocks and a sliding swipe down its long nose. Dark eyes take his measure and steps forward to butt its head against his chest. He smiles at the motion, knowing it was what the blacksmith waited for, because the shorter man steps back into the light and makes the sign of trade. Blood money is blood money is blood money and he is fourteen pieces lighter when they are done; he doesn't really bother haggling much, just enough to make the blacksmith feel as if he'd had one over on a hunter.

The saddle and bridle are offered, but he only takes the bridle and slips it over his newest companion's head. The bit is eased between large teeth slowly, and then the hunter waits for the horse to accept his dominion. He knows the horse is a mare and probably rife with all sorts of female notions so he doesn't move until she's worked out whatever complex thoughts horses think.

She whickers softly to him and he smiles.

* * *

It is easier to idle and wait to leave through the gates when the second moon sets and the sky lightens towards morning. This land is too cultivated for his tastes so it is a relief when the grasses turn wild the further they travel away from Idyllwild. The cryptic message is emblazoned in his mind and he returns to it again and again, searching for the meaning behind her words. It isn't often he's caught in the machinations of the other, but since he first responded to the summons of the mind ridden witch, his time is not his own. The world is not young nor is it old, but somewhere in between, middle-aged, cracked and broken, and all the creatures living on its face are beholden to its whims. Even gods and goddesses, tricksters and coyotes, Smoke Eaters and Whitewalkers are subjected to the world's temperament, but he alone had always felt one with it, evolved past the struggles of those around him.

Resentment flares at how he's been caught and not even for one particular reason he can suss out. To catch a thief seems innocuous enough, but to have encountered a deity so soon into his quest makes him examine this hunt closer than he normally would. His kind is as common as grass on the plains, so it makes him wonder why he is singled out above all others. He doesn't believe in coincidence or fate, merely bad luck and poor timing, so everything is suspicious and threatening except for the soft thighs fallen open in exaltation of his weight and purpose.

The mare senses the disquiet of her rider and puts a buck into her step, reminding him there are other dangers here. Desperate men and magic-twisted creatures roam the eastern grass and he must keep himself alert for their presence so neither he nor his beast is set upon unawares. This easy communion between them reminds him of what's more important and he lets the useless emotions go for now. He hasn't forgotten nor forgiven whatever has drug him into this path, but he's loosed and cannot turn from his objective.

Days pass quickly, the kenning always driving him east, past the grass he's accustomed to and stretching him until they're pressing upon the edges of the world he knows. The Wastes are arid barren swath of sand which divides the Grasslands from the Shadowlands; none have attempted to cross it because of the bones said to twist dance and moan upon the sands, luring unsuspecting travelers to their doom.

He is quite sure some must've traversed the face of the Wastes otherwise how would they know about the Shadowlands? Superstition and logic often part ways, so he doesn't bother pointing out the inconsistencies to the people in the small village he passes through for information. The eastern grasses are more inhabited than the north, so while he skirts the attention of more dangerous beings, he's trapped by the narrow-minded simpletons who eye him mistrustfully, as if judging him a grassland bandit instead of the hunter he is by trade and birth.

"Blood money, eh? What cause you come out here?"

The discourteous tone of the headsman affronts his sensibilities, especially when he's not granted lodging or hospitality befitting a wanderer. He sees the women hustled from the lane at his approach and knows there will be no bellies filled by him tonight. He keeps the sigh from his lips and narrows his eyes at the line of men spread before him. There is fear beneath their bravado but he doesn't think it's all directed towards him. His hunter sense tingles warily.

"I seek a thief."

There is dawning hope on the weather-lined faces before him and he feels vindicated by their loudly speaking silence.

"He stole my Yetta," one man finally volunteers, throat closing around the words. He studies the nervous swallower and listens to what's not being said. In the larger see-tis, women aren't bound, but mayhap in the grasses of this direction they are.

"Wife?"

The word strikes as hard as a knife to the heart and fear shivers across their features again; this time the quality of it has changed from distrust and wariness to deep-seated terror at his question. It seems there's more reason for the lack of female companionship thrust upon him.

"We're good folk, not heathens."

"She's my sister."

"Women ain't chattel passed from hand to hand."

He hears their words, but listens to their body language. It strikes him as funny about the claim of sisterhood versus bonding because rarely are male-female siblings kept together; women are too precious a commodity to raise among the rough and tumble, so they're separated early before attachments can grow. Lines are usually recorded so sister and brother don't create twisted life together, but otherwise, children belong to the mother. He often wonders if father-daughter pairings don't happen more often than not, but he supposes it's easier to track sibling incest instead since children born are easier to know than a fumble in the dark.

"Which direction did he go?"

The unequivocal pointing shows the goddess knows what she spoke of since only the Wastes lie in the direction of their fingers. He – the thief – truly does wait for him.

He promises to bring back the wife-sister to the men before him and this wins him a chance to water his horse. He debates his choices and finally decides to leave her here because she'll need feed soon enough and the grass will end. Her whicker is plaintive and chiding as he strides away from her, the bridle in another's hands. He's wrangled a promise to keep her until his return upon which he'll reclaim her; should his hunt prove deadly, the horse will remain here.

It is strange to feel the land beneath his feet instead of parsed through the towering bulk of the black, but he welcomes it again and vanishes swiftly from the periphery of the town.

* * *

A few days later, the flat plains slowly creep into hillocks and small valleys and then sudden end. A strange haunting melody swirls through the rustling grass, a sound he's unaccustomed to. It is the ghosting of sand funnels across blinding stretches of shimmering white; he's reached the edges of the world. It's a maddening sensation, the coolness of the knee-high grass giving way to the hot arid breach of the Wastes. His kenning has grown from a small pulsing beacon to a sickening swoop, the almost sound echoing in his bones. He's close, so close.

The lodestone feels heavy in his palm as he touches the slick side with a finger painted red. His blood activates the quiescent magic and he feels the pull towards the witch who created it.

"Hunter, I'm surprised at you. I expected it to be much longer."

Her form ripples into a small projection and he can feel the wrongness of her presence stretched across an immeasurable distance.

"I've tracked him to the Wastes."

There is a start of surprise, though he's not sure if he's sensed it through their mental connection or read it upon her face. Either way, suspicion wends through him.

"You never expected me to find him."

The small ticking of agreement in her mind allows him to disregard her immediate "I did," because her words are lies. Bridging between her physical self and the lodestone strains her power and she can't shield herself enough; he's able to slip into the cracks of her defenses and pries out information hidden in her psyche.

"A changer!"

This startles him because it's a breed that is near mythical in an age where magic rules. Changers are different from 'weres because they can reshape themselves at whim, while their tamer cousins are bound to the moons' cycles. Even he, in all his travels, has only heard rumors and never seen proven fact. It shouldn't surprise him they truly exist, but it somehow does.

"You are still under a blood contract. Whatever he may or may not be, you still obey my will!"

Her words are laden with power and he can feel her attempting to burrow into him, but it is futile and she is currently riderless. This much he knows.

"That's why you wanted me to take an oath. How in the empty spaces did you bind a changer?" The thief didn't take anything except himself, somehow escaping her hold. He doesn't mistake the flinch of truth as the tidbit swims from her mind to his. The wall in her mind is fast dissolving beneath his push and her waning power.

"You're under a blood-coin contract! You must obey me."

He tilts his head as he contemplates her words. Honor is the truest bond in the grass, oath binding the only sure way to enforce it. He is a hunter and his word is his honor and his bond, but still. He is also an oath breaker (though what oath he took and broke is hidden among his memory ruins).

"No."

He crushes the lodestone between two powerful hands using a small lick of power and throws it into the air. There's something satisfying about reducing it to salt and burning it, but he shrugs aside the feeling, instead focusing on his choices. It's always about choice and this one feels right. He could leave the changer to the Wastes, let him roam free, but curiosity and a darker knowing prevent him from leaving. A mind ridden witch loosed him and an earth goddess pointed him in the right direction: it was enough to make even the least skeptical person wonder why.

"S'truth," he curses, hand shading his eyes as he continues to straddle the divisional line between the two lands. A drop of blood falls onto the sands, hissing slightly in the silence. Glaring at the offending digit for betraying him, he brings the sliced flesh to his mouth and lightly sucks on it, his tongue lapping at the part. When it seals, he takes his finger out and steps into the Wastes without looking back.

* * *

Half-drunk beneath the blinding heat of the sun, he wonders if this is where he'll die now. He doesn't know how much time has passed or where he even is, but the strength of the kenning keeps each weary foot stepping in front of the other. The wind mocks him cruelly, brushing against his sweaty body, promising coolness, than lashing him with granules of sand until his skin welts beneath the onslaught. Water is a mere concept, a dream he's convinced doesn't exist, and he'll continue on until at last his body will give in and give up. He laughs dryly, cracked lips splitting but not leaking as his body hoards every precious fluid.

"This is the true payment isn't it Old Mother? You tricked me to sacrifice myself to the sands for the whelps growing in their dams' bellies!"

He screams aloud, knowing she'll hear him as even the tiniest grain of sand is connected to her. The Wastes are endless and many believe godless, but the earth is connected to its keepers no matter how large or small, so he waits for her retaliation, confirmation, anything really. It's not the heat so much as the emptiness and crackling silence that truly maddens him; even in the most barren grasslands there is a sense of life and hushed expectancy. Here is it swirling shapes that mean nothing and collapse with a flick of fire or imagination. He's been alone, but never truly lonely until now.

Dark, light, hot, searing heat, none make a difference to him as he trudges steadily on, growing leaner and leaner, skin tight across heavy bone as his body tries to cannibalize itself to keep going. The madness takes him fully then, shadows and whispers of people and places that don't, can't exist, until he swears he sees an oasis in this desert, clothing dropping heedlessly from his body as he races towards the promises of its beckoning. He flings himself face first into the damp, abruptly surfacing when its sand that closes over him instead.

He flips over onto his back and stares up at the white expanse of sky, the orange eye of a god glaring down upon him. He waits for death, knowing it'll be sweet and everlasting, a surcease from this hell of his own choosing. He's not afraid to die, dreamily thinking of the children he's scattered across the grass who will take up the banner of hunting and continue into the next generation; however long that may be.

Death comes softly, a brush of bone and sand across raw skin, and he accepts its presence gratefully. He's muzzy at the unexpected pain igniting the twitching nerves of a dying body, but he accepts this too as his due. He often mused upon the event of his passing and always thought it would be in battle, not in the foreign lands of the Wastes chasing after a myth, but now finds he cannot care. The witch and the mother and maybe even the sweet handmaiden will have the last laugh after all. His eyelids, which he didn't remember dropping, try to rise once more to look upon the land that finally did what nothing else could, but his strength is at an end and he just

Stops.


End file.
